Barriers
by CreepingMuse
Summary: "While I do long—sometimes quite painfully—to add the body to our already indestructible bond of heart and mind, the idea is somewhat intimidating. Perhaps, though it is unmanful to say so, even frightening." Crane and Mills know they love each other, but are they really ready for what comes next?


_Hi guys! So, I'm a big fan of AskCraneAndMills on Tumblr. Definitely check it out for some hilarious and insightful stuff. Anyway, when they posted a blog about the practice of "bundling," I knew I had to run with it, but all credit to whatever genius runs that account._

_This is pure fluff, set a couple years in the future. Thanks, as always, to JWAB for letting me babble inanely at her. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

When they finally kissed, it was almost a formality. It was a foregone conclusion that they loved each other, and had been for a long, long time. They'd done every important thing a couple should do: laughed together, mourned together, fought demons together, assembled IKEA shelves together. He had cried on her shoulder and vice versa; they'd held hands like their partner was the only one keeping them tied to this earth at all.

At the time, she hadn't been able to figure out why he wouldn't get out of the car. They were both beat and covered in ectoplasm from that _oude rode ogen _who had taken up residence in the Old Dutch Church. But when she parked in front of the cabin, he just sat there. Looking at her.

She looked right back. "Something on your mind?"

He shook himself, like he was coming out of a dream. "Indeed there is. Something has been for quite some time." He unbuckled his seat belt and turned so he was fully facing her. He cleared his throat. "As you may know-"

"Uh, you gonna make a speech or something? 'Cause I'd really rather it waited until I've had a shower."

"So would I, in truth, but I fear I should lose my nerve—again-if I do not ask now." The man who had once hacked a demon apart with an ax, looked afraid. "Would it be so very disagreeable to you if I were to kiss you?"

He watched her bashfully from under his lashes, cheeks flushed red. She just smiled and leaned over the gearshift toward him, though she stopped just before their lips met. "You really think you had to ask?"

"I had hoped not, but-" He shut himself up by bridging the space between them, pressing his lips firmly against hers. His hand cupped her slime-streaked cheek.

It was a good kiss, the kind that buzzed around her head like a swarm of bees before settling in at points further south. She'd never kissed a guy with a beard before, so the contrast of his soft lips with the scritchiness was new and exciting. But the thing that made it really good? It was Crane. It was corny as hell, but Abbie knew that their hearts were already in sync; bringing their bodies together seemed like a totally logical next step. She leaned into the kiss, but he was already leaning _out_ of it.

That was it? It had been over so fast, and it was _way _too good-boy for Abbie's tastes: no tongue, no biting, no nothin'. Before she knew it, he was out of the car and scampering toward the cabin, promising to call her tomorrow.

Yeah, sure, it was kinda weird, but so was Crane. Plus, he had about a metric ton of baggage: Katrina had died nearly two years ago, giving her life to drain Jeremy of his and save Sleepy Hollow. Abbie still wasn't sure how he'd gotten through those days—there were times when it was touch and go—but somehow, he'd survived and done okay. Still, he loved Katrina, and this was his first stab at moving on. So even though Abbie would have happily followed him inside, she let it go. They'd take this at his pace.

When he kissed her again during a quiet moment at their lair, it was the same thing: thrilling because it was _him, _but chaster than a nun with a yeast infection. When she'd tried to slip him a little tongue (maybe they didn't have French kissing in the 1700s?), he froze and backed away, stammering something about requiring a constitutional.

Abbie only had so much patience.

That night, she gave Crane her well-thumbed copy of _Lady Chatterly's Lover._ Mrs. Peters, the best English teacher in the world, had slipped her the book on the down low back in sophomore year, and it had been one of Abbie's favorites ever since. And, sure, Abbie wanted to share that story with him, but she had ulterior motives: it was going to help her have The Talk with Ichabod. If they were going to be together, Abbie wanted to be _together. _If not, they'd go back to the way they had been. She was sure they could do that.

Pretty sure, anyway. But she didn't want to.

_Lady Chatterly _was a short book and she'd given it to him days ago, but he hadn't mentioned it. Tonight, he made her favorite dinner, cheese sandwiches toasted over the fire (_so _much better than grilled cheese). She did paperwork while he translated something from Nordic runes. Or to Nordic runes, she wasn't really sure. It was all very normal...except that _normally,_ he was busting to tell her about whatever he was reading.

Now? Not one fucking peep.

Finally, she slapped her file folder closed and chucked her pen aside. "So did you read the book I gave you?"

"'The battle...shall be waged...in the...water closet?' That can't be right," he muttered to himself, reaching across the crowded table for another crumbly scroll.

"Crane." She grabbed his wrist before he got anywhere near it. She stroked her thumb gently across his wrist bone. "That can wait."

He stared down at their hands. His Adam's apple bobbed. Abbie watched as his ears turned bright cherry red. Yup, he'd read the book all right. Suddenly he tossed his head up, flicking hair out of his face, and switched straight into professor mode.

"I found it a fascinating insight into how stringent social mores remained even well into the twentieth century," he said, talking way too fast. "Indeed, it was beautifully written and-"

"I've always really liked how Constance figured out that she couldn't just be in her head all the time, you know?" Abbie interrupted. She released his wrist and turned his hand over, palm up. "How she figures out that to be really in love with someone, the heart and the head and the body all have to be working together." She bent over his hand, pressing the lightest of kisses just where the jumble of life and love lines came together. Slowly, she traced the lines with her tongue.

Crane's hand twitched like he'd been electrocuted, but he didn't pull away. "Well. Yes. Of course the physical representation of love was accurately, if brazenly depicted."

"You think I'm being 'brazen'?" She moved upward, lips and tongue dancing along his inner arm. Just at the crook of his elbow, she nipped. He jumped out of his seat like a jackrabbit and was on the other side of the room before she could blink.

"I meant no insult," he said in the most British way possible, yanking his sleeve down. "You know I find you eminently desirable." His eyes darkened. "You cannot possibly know just how much of a temptation you pose at times."

"Well, maybe not, but I know how much of a temptation _you _pose to _me._" She stood and walked toward him, but stopped about ten feet away. She wasn't gonna force him, but she was going to get to the bottom of this. "And what's it matter if we give into temptation, anyway? I know you're not a virgin, and sorry if I'm bursting your bubble, but neither am I."

"How shocking. I always imagined you and Detective Morales merely played at checkers during your courtship," he said drily. "Of course I don't care about that. The necessity of virginity on a wedding night was outdated in my day, and to expect it from you-"

"Whoa, who said anything about a wedding night?"

His eyes got round, and he looked right and left, like he was surveying the exits for an escape route. He drew in a deep breath, ready to launch into some other explanation, but then their eyes met.

They both broke into giggles. Only they could make something as instinctual and simple as _fucking _this complicated.

"We are making quite a muddle of this thing, aren't we?" Crane asked, once they'd calmed down.

"Fucking it up but good," Abbie confirmed. "So let's just talk. No more games, no more getting prissy, just talk." She took his hand and led him to the couch. They flopped down, her back against the arm of the couch and her legs resting in his lap.

"How come this part's so easy?" she asked. "You never find it weird when we sit like this. But you won't give me a good, curl-your-toes kinda kiss-or let me give you one. Why?"

He scrunched down onto the couch, resting both hands on her shin. "I feel I must reiterate again in the strongest language that my reticence in no way reflects my ardor for you. Nor should it be interpreted as a lack of affection. I thought long and hard before I asked to...transform our friendship into something more, as it were, and I have no regrets."

Abbie nodded, but kept quiet. It was gonna take him a while to get all this out, to sort through it in that big old brain of his. The best thing she could do was just to be here, to wait until it all shook out.

Eventually, it did. "Will I, in turn, burst _your _bubble if I were to confess that I was also not a virgin on my wedding night?"

"Ichabod Crane, you hound dog."

He snorted. "Hardly. But, nonetheless, like most men of my age, I had...dalliances. Maids. Camp followers. Fallen ladies. But it was nothing more than animal rutting. Little thought was given to the woman's pleasure. It was simply release." He looked at her hard, like she was supposed to understand, but she shook her head.

"Well, that stuff about not caring about the woman's pleasure isn't going to fly, obviously. But shouldn't your experience make it easier for me and you to make the beast with two backs?"

His eyes lit up. "That always was one of my favorite euphemisms for the act of coitus. I am pleased it survives."

"For the record? 'Coitus' is the least sexy word on the planet."

"Quite. But we digress." Crane closed his eyes, searching for the right words. "You and I are already far more intimate than I ever thought possible. Secrets cannot live between us, even when we might selfishly wish them to. We know and— do correct me if I speak out of turn—accept one another on the deepest possible levels."

"Yeah, that all sounds fair." Sometimes, Abbie wondered how much of that was them and how much was their destiny. Were they Witnesses because they belonged together or did they belong together because they were Witnesses? How much did free will play into it? Were they always meant to get to this point, or-

Nope. She wasn't going to think about that. Not right now. For whatever reason, she loved him. That was enough.

"While I do long—sometimes quite painfully—to add the body to our already indestructible bond of heart and mind, the idea is somewhat intimidating. Perhaps, though it is unmanful to say so, even frightening." His hand tightened, long fingers swallowing her hand whole. His eyes darted nervously over her face; he was afraid of her response, but still, he refused to look away.

"Let's add 'unmanliness' to the list of things we don't need to care about," she said with a smile. Then she shrugged. "Bottom line is this: I want you, Ichabod. All of you. I dunno that I put the same kinda mystical significance to sex that you do—I tend to fall into the 'sex is natural, sex is fun' camp—but I want you to be ready." She kissed his scratchy cheek; man, that was gonna take some getting used to once they _did _get busy. "So you tell me when that is. In the meantime, I'll just stock up on batteries."

"Stock up on batteries?" he asked, puzzled.

She just grinned. "One day, I'll get to teach you _so many_ fun things."

Puzzlement gave way to need, and Abbie felt for him. Two years was a long, long dry spell. She'd kept busy with some of her friends with benefits—Luke was always game—but Crane? She was pretty sure he'd been living like a monk.

Then, just as quickly, that aching look was gone, replaced by a flash of inspiration. He carefully but quickly removed her legs from his lap, then hopped up and seized the old flannel afghan from the back of the couch. "To the bedroom!"

Abbie didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

Crane busily tucked the thick comforter around her shoulders. With brisk, darting motions, he shoved the ends under her back. "We will presently be engaging in _bundling, _an ancient custom designed to foster physical intimacy without actually engaging _in _physical intimacy. It was traditionally employed by betrothed couples prior to their nuptials."

"Professor, does bundling mean I have to lose all feeling in my feet?" She wiggled under the blankets he'd fastidiously swaddled her in. "I feel like a burrito."

"You should count your blessings; an Oxford chum of mine swore that in his village, the betrothed—not that _we _are betrothed, I hasten to clarify—were placed in separate sacks during bundling, with only their heads poking out. It quite discouraged impropriety, but sounds desperately uncomfortable."

"I definitely would have vetoed the sacks." Crane started piling pillows down the center of the bed. "Though for the record, you _do _know this is fucking weird, right?"

"Goes without saying," he said immediately. "But perhaps we might try it, if only for the night?" His voice and his eyebrows raised hopefully, and she had to smile.

"Who's gonna bundle you up?"

"I shall have to do the deed myself." He paused, hands fluttering over her shoulder "Are you comfortable?"

She nodded, and he headed for his side of the bed. He'd already stripped down to just his long shirt and boxers (he felt the same way about briefs as he did about skinny jeans), which didn't seem to make him self-conscious at all. She wasn't going to try to figure it out; she'd just go along for the ride. After a few minutes of _harumphing, _Crane wrapped himself in a separate set of blankets and freed a hand just long enough to turn off the bedside lamp.

Side by side in their cocoons, they both stared up at the dark ceiling. Abbie wasn't quite sure what they were supposed to be doing—should she just go to sleep? Should she try to make a pass? She squirmed; her feet were too hot under these gazillion blankets. "So did you ever do this back in the day?" she asked. "Maybe you and old Betsy?"

"Mrs. Ross was already a widow when I knew her; there was no need for such coyness. But no, I did not. It was a somewhat quaint tradition, even then, practiced mostly by those entering arranged marriages. Katrina told me of her experience with it, once." She was glad she couldn't see his face; it hurt too much to look at him when he thought of Katrina. Plus, when you consider that she would've been bundled with Abraham...yeah. Awkward. But still, there was something going on here she couldn't ignore.

"Is this whole bundling...thing...because of her? Because you feel guilty about moving on?" Maybe she shouldn't have said it quite so bluntly; maybe she shouldn't have said it at all. But Crane had loved Katrina and always would. Abbie tried really, really hard not to be jealous, but she'd be dumb to pretend his ex wasn't a factor.

"No," he said, firmly and without hesitation. "Katrina wanted me to be happy, more than anything. And she knew that what made me happiest in this world is you."

She wished she could touch him, somehow—even a hand on the shoulder. He'd never been closer to her, but he felt so far away. Fucking pillows. "I liked her too, you know."

"And she, you. But let us speak no more of Katrina. I understand it is considered a _faux pas _to discuss one's former paramours during courtship."

Abbie gave a half-smile he couldn't see. "You know, this reminds me of slumber parties as a kid, everyone bundled up in sleeping bags, gossiping and talking about which boys we liked. It was always easier to tell secrets in the dark."

"I am glad that my company is at least equal to that of a nine-year-old girl," he said. Abbie heard a faint rustling, then almost jumped out of her skin when he nosed his hand up under her blankets.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Crane, isn't that against the rules?"

"Indeed it is. You must be having that delinquent effect upon me again."

They drifted to sleep, inches apart, his hand resting on the bare skin just above her knee.

He was gone when she woke up, off to teach civics to bored students at Westchester County Community College. Though he privately railed against the students' ignorance, he always hoped he'd be the one to show them the beauty and genius of the Constitution, and their own duty as proud American citizens.

Of course, they didn't know he'd helped to shape the Constitution, just that he was a weird-dressing English dude.

She rolled over, breaking free of her bundling prison. She started to bury her face in his pillow, to breathe in that smell of leather and _Craneness, _but there was a folded piece of paper already there. The words were written in thick black ink, the words so ornate and pretty she almost couldn't read them. But blearily, she made them out:

"_'...Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,_

_Haply I think on thee, and then my state, _

_Like to the lark at break of day arising _

_From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; _

_For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings _

_That then I scorn to change my state with kings.'_

_Your Gracious Kindness and Patience only serve to deepen my Fondness for you, my Dearest Abbie. Your obedient and Affectionate, Ichabod Crane_."

Abbie kept the note folded in her breast pocket. No one at the precinct could figure out why she couldn't stop smiling.

* * *

They stayed at her place that night, so Abbie did the bundling honors. "You know, I didn't mind this last night. I thought it was gonna drive me crazy, but it was almost romantic. There were no distractions, so we could just kinda focus on each other. How about you?" She leaned over him, her hair brushing his collar bone, lips hovering above his. "Did it do what you needed it to?" His hands were trapped under the blankets, but Crane lifted his head and kissed her. And this one? Oh yeah, this one was a real kiss.

She was kinda surprised at how delicate he was. Not hesitant, not clumsy, just gentle and precise, his tongue caressing hers, not bludgeoning like so many guys did. His lips pulled softly at hers, teeth grazing just enough that Abbie felt a little weak in the knees.

She really, really, _really _wanted to hold nothing back, to kiss him long and deep and hard, then throw all these blankets away and tear his shirt off. She wanted to ride him every which way and hear him groan her name.

But she pulled away instead, smoothing his blankets. "Abbie?" he said, brows furrowing. "Did I...? Have I...?"

"Don't be dumb. I said it right from the start, Ichabod: You've got game. But we're taking it slow, remember?" She gave one last tuck before climbing into bed. Crane made some sounds, but she wasn't sure if they were just incoherent sputterings or if he was speaking some other language. "Look, I don't want you to do anything you're gonna regret. If it's going to be too weird for you, then I'd rather we spend another night like this before we keep going."

He made a noise low in his throat. "You do know I am quite capable of freeing myself from these infernal blankets, do you not?"

"Yeah, but you won't. You like to play by the rules. And since you _made _these rules, you aren't going to break them." She hunkered down into her own little blanket fort. Woulda been nice if she could see him, but they had the pillow wall up again. "I just don't want to screw this up, Crane. I don't want you to think we have to move at a certain rate or anything. Our situation is, you know, complicated. But you're worth waiting for."

"As always, you are far kinder to me than I deserve." Sheets rustled. "I do wonder, sometimes. What would have become of me if it had not been you who found me when I awoke."

Abbie had a couple good guesses about what might have happened. None of them were pretty. "Yeah, well. Finding you worked out okay for me, too."

He lifted his head just enough to peer over the pillow wall. "Merely 'okay'? Is that all you have to say of these last years? 'Okay'? What a nonsensical word. You—by which I mean your generation—uses it incessantly to avoid giving true voice and meaning to your thoughts."

She laughed. "Oh, come on, you know it's way more than okay. I'm just not as good with words as you are."

Ichabod threw himself back down with a grumble. "In my day, a man's—or a lady's—words were his most important asset. During the War, when I was apart from-" his voice faltered for a second, but he caught himself quickly. "-apart from all I loved, words were the only way we could express our needs and desires to one another."

"Needs and desires, huh?"

"Even the most faithful heart will long for more physical companionship during extended absences. A bit of...passionate letter writing could be of assistance."

"Old-timey sexting. Cute." She tried to peek over at him, but he must have been flush against the pillows. "So what kinds of things did you all write back then?"

He cleared his throat. "My dearest Abigail, the remembrance of your smile sustained me this day. In my times of greatest fear and most daunting doubt, I cast my mind back to the afternoon we two spent at the _baseball diamond, _only a short while after we had met_._"

"Oh yeah, sexy stuff," Abbie said playfully.

"Patience, if you please; a good letter requires a preamble. May I continue?"

"Don't let me stop you."

He waited for a few seconds, daring her to interrupt again, before he continued. "I recalled the way the hair curled at the base of your neck, tendrils falling softly from 'neath your cap. The tiniest beads of perspiration clung there, catching the light. Indeed, that day, you seemed wholly composed of light: sunlight falling warmly upon your skin, your own joy illuminating you from within. Observing you that day gave me, I daresay, more joy than the game gave you."

Had he really seen all that? They'd only known each other a few weeks then. But that's what Crane did: he saw, and he remembered. "You just made all that up off the top of your head just now?"

"I have mused on the memory for some time. Now, had we been corresponding in the eighteenth century, I would have been forced to stop there. Anything more would have been scandalous; I should have relied upon you to divine my true meaning between the words I had written."

Was this really going where she thought it was going? God, she hoped so. "But we aren't in the eighteenth century and fuck propriety," she said.

"And you say you haven't a way with words," he said. "Indeed, today, unfettered by the constraints of the time, I might continue by saying I longed to watch the muscles in your stomach jump as you laughed. I wished to view the lean curve of your spine as you strained forward, every bit of you focused on the game before your eyes. I wondered if I, too, could elicit such rapt attention."

Abbie may have been bundled, but her hands were free to do whatever they wanted underneath the blankets. As he spoke, she brushed her fingers just below her belly button. The skin shivered to life, as much from the sound of his voice as anything. "How would you go about doing that, exactly?"

"The thought did arise that those small outbuildings in which the players sat—what are those called, again?"

"Dugouts."

"Dugouts, yes. It occurred to me that, once the game had concluded, perhaps once night had fallen, they might make a convenient bower. Perhaps we could steal inside and I could remove that cap of yours, letting your hair fall free. Then, beneath that dark and lovely curtain, perhaps I might press a kiss just beneath your ear, perhaps even toying with the earring which studded your lobe."

Abbie let her hand slide a little lower, under her waistband. "Definitely game for that. I'd probably grab a handful of your hair and push you down, along my neck. There's this spot, just where it meets my shoulder-"

"Ah, yes. Where the scapulae meets the trapezius. A fine spot. I should be glad to-"

"Pro-tip, Crane: When dirty talking, typically you're gonna want to avoid scientific names."

"How else may one be specific about which areas of the body they mean to discuss?" Crane asked, genuinely confused.

"Well, for example, I could say that once we were done necking a little, I'd probably start heading down. Since we're in the dugout, probably don't want to bother taking shirts off, so I'd sneak up under your shirt and drag my nails across your belly. I've always loved how you have just enough hair-so sexy. Plus, that little bit of friction from my nails would make you tense up, start anticipating what's next."

The mattress shifted, and Abbie couldn't take it: she nosed one of the pillows aside so she could peep through. There were too many blankets on top of him for a clear look, but Abbie could see the bulge of his hand moving, slowly and methodically. He hadn't noticed her, or she bet he would have stopped. She tore her eyes from him so she could speak without him catching wise.

"Then lower. I never could figure out why you bitched so much about the skinny jeans—those pants of yours don't seem to leave much room for growing, either. So maybe I'd press against you a little to get things started, rub the flat of my hand until you start getting hard."

"That would be of no difficulty, I assure you," he said. If she hadn't known him so well, she might have missed the strain in his voice. Abbie spread her legs, one knee cocked out to the side, and let her hand dip lower on her own body.

"You might have to help me with the buttons, and we'd probably wind up getting in each others' way."

"Most likely. But during this tenure, I should not wish for you to feel neglected. Whilst you were occupied in more southerly climes, I might reach beneath your blouse. I feel that on that day, I would have been able to feel the light pouring from inside of you, your very skin aflame. Perhaps I might have stroked your breasts through your undergarment, pressed my fingers against your hardened nipples."

She watched him as he spoke, the way his hips nudged against his hand. She managed to squeak her own hand free long enough to wet it in her mouth before stroking it through her folds.

"Then we'd have to do the whole pants dance with me, but eventually we'd get there. You'd sit on the bench, and I'd straddle you. We'd rest our foreheads together, and then you'd thrust right up, as far as you could go," Abbie said. The sentence ended in a muffled groan as she slipped that finger deep inside her.

Crane froze. "Are you...are you...?"

"Uh huh." She added another finger. "I'd set the pace. Fast, hard, grabbing onto your hair for dear life. Sometimes I pull...a little too hard. Fair warning." Another finger. Faster.

"Once I had—once you were-" Crane stammered. His pace had picked up, too. "I would seize your buttocks firmly and help you drive yourself home." A deep, animal sound. Abbie pressed her thumb firmly against her clit, thighs scissoring together. She cried out.

Neither of them were really capable of speech after that, but the sounds were enough. Ichabod came first. She could only make out his outline in the dark, head thrown back, hips thrust into the air. "Fuck," he shuddered.

Even though she was just on the edge herself, she had to laugh. "Never heard you say that before."

Panting. "I am adapting to the vernacular. But though I may be satiated, we are not yet through. I would slip my hand between us, letting my fingers press between your thighs. Since you have set a punishing pace for our coupling, I would do similarly with your _button._"

Abbie imagined his long, beautiful fingers between her legs, the smell of him hanging thickly in the air. Legs clamped around her hand, she came with a voiced sigh.

There wasn't any need to talk for a while; they both breathed raggedly, trying to pull themselves back together. Just as Abbie was starting to wonder if Crane had fallen asleep, he tossed aside the pillow that separated their heads and kissed her soundly.

"A fine lesson in alternative anatomical nomenclature, Miss Mills."

"And in letter writing, Mr. Crane."

They fell asleep, both heads sharing the same pillow.

* * *

Life got a little crazy after that. Abbie was testifying in a big, non-supernatural murder trial, so she spent long hours at the courthouse in White Plains. Crane had finals to grade, and they both wound up spending their nights dealing with an infestation of Red Caps in the high school. If they even made it home, they wound up falling into exhausted, dreamless sleep immediately.

One night, they sat hunched together in their lair. She was cleaning her sidearm and Crane scrubbed blood—lots and lots of blood, none of it theirs—from his sword.

"Typical romantic night, huh?" she asked, pushing the cleaning pad into the barrel.

"I hardly think anything about us could be considered _typical. _Would you be so kind as to hand me the whetstone?"

She tossed him the rock. "Maybe not. It'd be nice if we had a little more time to ourselves, though. Guess we've only got what, four more years of apocalypse?"

He caught the whetstone, but didn't start sharpening his sword. He turned it over and over in his hand. "No."

"What, is my math off?"

"No. I refuse to wait four years for my life to begin." He pushed his sword aside and plucked the gun from her hands.

"Crane, I gotta clean that, I fired it, and-"

"It can wait. I shall not." Then, just as easily as he'd picked up the gun, he lifted her out of her seat and settled her on his lap facing him.

Well. That got her attention. As did the kissing: he went straight for the place where her neck met her shoulder. He pulled her shirt aside and nuzzled against her, lips pressing lightly, then more insistently.

True to her word, she tangled her hands in his long hair—but only to pull him back. She looked up at him seriously. They only had one shot at this. "What about being intimidated about going deeper with our bond?"

"You are my partner in all things. To fear you would be as silly as fearing my own self." He brushed his long nose against hers. "Let us continue forging our fates together."

She kissed him the way she liked to be kissed: hard, deep, with hands moving everywhere. His arms started to tighten around her, but she wiggled free and hopped down. He looked at her in alarm. "Chill out, chill out." It took her a minute of digging, but she eventually found what she was looking for in her purse. She held up the small foil packet. "You ever use a condom before?"

He said something about sheep guts, but she tried really hard to tune that out.

They swept the books off the table (well, after Ichabod removed a few which he assured her were far too delicate to be thrown about like common pamphlets). They struggled with unfamiliar clothes—Crane was still iffy on zippers, though he knew his way around a bra. She kissed the rough, brutal scar on his chest; he brushed shaking fingertips across scars she wouldn't talk about.

They discovered every inch of each other, pressing their hands together to marvel at the size difference; Abbie watching Crane's face to see _just _how hard she could bite his nipple before his pleasure turned to pain; Ichabod listening to the pace of her breathing to learn the perfect angle as he buried three fingers inside her.

It took a surprisingly long time before they got to the condom, but when they did, they were both shaking with need. Crane lay on the table, legs dangling off the edge; he was still wearing his boots for some weird reason, but they weren't going to worry about that right now. Abbie happened to be on top, but there was no real _top _here. Their rhythm was sure and unshakable, like they'd been doing this for years.

Abbie guessed that, in a way, they had been.

After, they curled together on the table, her head tucked just under his chin, his hand resting casually against her breast like they did this every day. They didn't say they loved each other; it seemed as obvious as saying that the sky was blue and water was wet.

In the morning, they'd have to start all over again with the grind of work and saving the world. They'd bleed and they'd struggle and the dark side would do all it could to tear them apart. But for now, they slept with no barriers between them.

* * *

_The love letter Crane leaves quotes a portion of Shakespeare's Sonnet 29. _


End file.
